


Good Ending

by Buried_Fire



Category: One Piece
Genre: Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, Gore, Implied gang rape and other shit, Incest, Multi, Not Good, Please run while you can, Swearing, bottom!Doflamingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 07:25:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3166415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buried_Fire/pseuds/Buried_Fire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A good ending. You had forced me this far, forced me into this good ending, and in this good ending, you died.<br/>Canon Divergence from 766. Rosinante's mission was complete and Doflamingo ended up captured. Dark settings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Ending

**Author's Note:**

> Canon divergence from 766, AU where Rosinante completed his plan and got Doflamingo captured. Sounds relatively good but nothing in this fic is happy in the slightest way. Bad marine guys were sent at my command.
> 
> Additional Warning: Horrible stuff written for my morbid interest in torturing both Doffy and Rosi. It is suggested to retreat immediately if things start to upset you.
> 
> Some less dreadful scenes inspired by Julyan’s CoraDof fanart. She is a blessing to me.

A very bad hunch occurred to Rosinante when he pushed the door open.

Inside the cell, the stone wall was embedded with irregular shaped rocks, while a dim light flickered, coloring the interior a mixture of dying faint yellow and silent pure black. In a corner that was virtually invisible, the water drops dripped from the ceiling into darkness. The slim scents of blood slowly swam across the air, trying to infiltrate his breath. A depressing little cage, perfect to lock those troublesome birds in. No matter who designed a place in such state, his intention was probably to have it crush the mind of the criminal held here together with his interrogators. One that seemed to be working nicely.

Rosinante walked into the room, as if walking into a horror story. He saw the protagonist of the story curling up in the deeper cell with his legs folded together. He closed the cell door behind him, stepping closer to the man on the ground, and even when he was already standing right before him, the prisoner made no cognizable reaction.

His eyes had just finished adjusting themselves to the dark surroundings. Although he knew the man in front of him is alive – he was too tough to break under mere physical tortures, still, such scene of strong inductivity made him can't help but feel the man had stopped breathing long ago. The prisoner's wrists were legitimately shackled, body broken up like a doll thrown out the window; the only clothes remaining was his black suit, which in fact was hardly more than a pile of cloth clinging onto him. Those exposed parts of skin, compared to the velvet they once resembled, now can be better described as tattered rags ripped by beast claws. The thin crimson scars in 'x' shapes bloomed across his body like flowers, or many flattened scarlet crosses branded into the skin, covered in the glimmering red of light and blood. The deep wounds bestrewing his body lay open in torn flesh, sending forth rich sanguinary odor as a bunch of ferocious rotten roses.

Flogging. How typical.

Rosinante knew it would happen. “A small trouble” was an understatement to describe Doflamingo back in days, and marines were never trained to show mercy towards pirates. He found no pleasure in torturing anyone himself, but this was hardly his call. Years ago, back to the night he left the Marine Headquarters for North Blue, Sengoku told him, “No matter what happens next, remember, Rosinante, this isn't just about some personal grudge among you brothers. It's a battle between justice and evil. We stand for justice, and if we lose, the orders of the world will be lost as well.” A stern look hung on the face of the Fleet Admiral, with the eyes hid behind lenses sharp and deep.

“It has never been a civilized war.”

 

Silently, Rosinante looked down at the face before him. The sunglasses were long gone. The man's face, once shimmered with a glamour too mesmerizing not to somehow relate to evil supernatural powers, was now scratched and bruised, turned into a marble statue with a theme of pain. Tortured, gaunt, he had discolored like a piece of gold artifact lying bare in the rain. His facial features were slightly twisted, as the trepidation continued to haunt him even in his stupor.

“Doffy.”

Pricked by an invisible needle, Doflamingo's body twitched a little. His breath became cognizable, eyelashes shivering, and a few seconds later, he forced his eyes open. Rosinante watched him blink blankly, then turned his face towards him at the realization of someone's presence.

His right eye was facing Rosinante, and it now almost looked as dead as the artificial eye in his left socket. Many fragments of sunlight once scattered in that real eye of his, and now they were wiped clean, leaving only a pair of dull golden glass balls. It managed to roll slowly, observing the man in the front. Rosinante knew his spirit that was rendered a little numb before was now waking up; and just like he thought, possibly stimulated by the presence of his foe, a familiar animosity began to revive in Doflamingo's only eye. He struggled, straightening his upper body up, and managed to brush the weakness in his expression aside in a haste.

“…Enjoy what you see?”

His lips were red and swollen, voice hoarse like metal scraps mingled with fine sand. He glowered at Rosinante with his only eye, and that gaze pressed against his throat like an ice knife dripping venom.

Rosinante did not answer.

He was neither the eloquent type, nor was he good at speaking his thoughts out in words. He just looked at Doflamingo, their last fighting scene emerged before his eyes. A successful ambush, some heavy echoes of metal clashing, the spectacle frames crushed broken and the lenses smashed into pieces. Rosinante dropped his head to meet a burning glare from Doflamingo, who was forced into kneeling with arms pinioned behind his back, yet still held his head high in an uncompromising pose, blood was dripping from his mouth corner into the dust. His comrades just wouldn't stop give each other high-fives, patting him on the shoulder saying good job Rosinante, we couldn't have done it without you, and he said nothing, only to place a palm on his limb bleeding from the attack. Those burdens stored in his heart started to flow away as stream water, and that's when he noticed, on the bottom, like pebbles, lied the emotions he assumed to be gone long ago.

And now, as if he was dragged back to that moment, Rosinante looked at his already defeated enemy and, much to his own surprise, slid into melancholy.

Perhaps he had been suppressing himself for way too long. He did not allow himself to grow any emotional attach to his enemy in case that would grow into a weakness; and now it's all over with him on the side of victory, freed, and finally earned his right to be sentimental. But this sentiment was too delicate, too confounding, he did not know how to express it with language, not that there was a need to – he didn't want Doflamingo to die from exhausting what's left of his life energy in mocking him.

His silence had irritated Doflamingo. “Huh, here to play mute again? Stop that. I'm fed up with your stunts.” With that said, he suddenly burst into coughing and choking, and did not raise his head to look at Rosinante again until he was done catching his breath. His only eye was indubitably cold, as if he firmly believed his little brother was either here to brag about his victory, or to throw more insults at him. “You won, Rosinante. And I lost, got humiliated and punished just like a loser. What else do you want? Get your ass out of here if you're done enjoying yourself.”

Rosinante didn't give an instant answer. In fact, he had no clear idea why he got here himself. It was true that he kept secrets from Doflamingo, but the plans had already been carried out and a result was generated, rendering the whole confession thing pointless. They had nothing to talk about really, not to mention he was pretty sure that the only thing Doflamingo had for him was a spit in his face.

Yet he still opened his mouth.

 

“…They'll send you to Impel Down tomorrow.”

“Really now?” Lips puckered into an acerbic curve, Doflamingo now seemed even more disdainful. He was the only one Rosinante had ever seen that could demonstrate being disdainful so vividly in such a difficult situation, and Rosinante had met a lot of people. “If I really get to see the interior of Impel Down and live to tell about it, then the Celestial Dragons must be bigger fools than I thought.”

Rosinante didn't get it. “…Celestial Dragons? What does this have to do with them?”

“You don't know?” Doflamingo stared at Rosinante with one eyebrow raised, trying to tell if his reaction was honest. Then, persuaded that his brother really had no idea of this, he scoffed.

“So Sengoku did not tell you. Of course he didn't, old bastard wasn't that stupid.” He said in a flat tone. “To put it simple, those Celestial Dragons hate to see me live. Some little secrets I had about them were so unnerving that they have to lay in bed with their eyes open, cursing my name every night while I'm still out there. ”

 

“…”

Rosinante blinked a little. He was sure his face just went numb in shock.

All these years, he thought he had known the marines' ways well enough to prepare himself for such unwanted surprises, and he seemed to be proven wrong. Sengoku never told him about this “unnerving secrets” thing. Many assumptions flashed across his mind swiftly – the probability of lying? Low. What good could a false prophecy of his own death possibly do to Doflamingo? In that case, how the hell could Doflamingo have any connection to the Celestial Dragons that he wasn't already aware of? Was it when –

No. He reminded himself, cutting off the stream of running thoughts. This had changed nothing. The criminal record of Donquixote Pirates could practically make up a damn book, and the marines had more than enough reasons to wipe them out, with or without Doffy's problem with the Celestial Dragons. Yes, those less-than-decent former compatriots of his would be happier now; an unpleasant side effect indeed, but not contradictory to Rosinante's actions. What he did was what he should have done, and that's all that mattered.

Nevertheless, if what Doflamingo said was true, then his death would be inevitable. And imminent. He was deprived of any power that could defend himself, and what the Celestial Dragons want, what they get. Rosinante knew how far such caprice can go well enough, and this knowledge didn't help him in getting ready for this at all.

Doflamingo wasn't looking at Rosinante anymore. The drop point of his sight fell into the darkness suffusing the cell corner, while he soliloquized in an empty tone. “How long has it been? Two days? …Then they must have known. Bastards might as well hold a conference to inform each other that damned troublesome Doflamingo finally met his bitter end, cracking open a few bottles of champagne, and when they request gets back to the World Government, I'd be on my way to hell.” He murmured to himself, then fell into a pause.

Sinking his eyes, Doflamingo uttered a little sneer. “Crap. Too many people I don't want to see there.”

Like a wooden statue, Rosinante stood rigidly.

Suddenly, everything had subtly gone out of the right track. He was here to bid a farewell, in a sense, but he thought they were still going to live separately somewhere in this world, just without each other. He could, at last, recall all of this in a future day without a heavy heart, and he could live without those unwanted lies and disguises, not as Corazon, but as Rosinante. Yet Doflamingo's death was not part of his intention. He just wanted to neutralize him, render him harmless to this world – maybe also in some vague hope, an unrealistic wish that someday, during the ablution of time, some grass might grow among those desolate ruins. But, all o f a sudden, he was informed that such a thing was never going to happen, this farewell was final, and after this meeting he shall live as the only witness of everything ever happened between them.

The air had become colder. Virtually as cold as standing in heavy snow, chilling him to an ague.

 

“…How's the family?”

In a trance, he heard the voice of Doflamingo. He forced a reply out of his throat, somehow managed not to sound too dry.

“…Under arrest. Most of them. For the kids, Vice Admiral Tsuru offered to take care of them.”

“Vice Admiral Tsuru? She?” Doflamingo shook his head. “God, what a disaster.”

He peered into the emptiness in front of him lifelessly, as if he had just abjured his interest in everything else in the world. A blank expression unfolded upon his face evenly, every small trace of emotion seemed to be covered under white paint. Rosinante had no idea what was on his mind, that gypsum shell masking his face looked so unfamiliar, too unfamiliar that it almost pained the blond to watch it – as though the intangible film between them had just materialized, blocking in the thin air waywardly. He didn't want the last meeting of them to get stuck in a mire tragically, but there was nothing he can do to improve the situation. He knew whatever he came up with would sound ridiculous, thus he could only stay quiet, just like what he did in the past.

 

Thick, airtight silence had been poured into the constricted space like a bottle of ink. Rosinante almost let out a sigh of relief when he heard Doflamingo spoke again.

“Such a pity I won't be able to watch those cattle fleeing in peril and begging me for mercy.” He said, then turned his face to Rosinante. “But that's none of your concerns. Now that your curiosity has been satisfied, would you please get the hell out of me face? If you haven't noticed by now, I'm gonna fucking die, Corazon. Have some sympathy and spare a dying man of your damn face.”

His spoke with his only eye fixed on him. Any emotion that can be described as weak – sorrow, loss or regret – had now been erased from his eye even if they had once filled it, and the only thing left to show Rosinante was hate, which was a relentless curse, grim and unadorned like a weapon. Should a hunter be experienced, he'd know that a beast with such an eye could never be domesticated, and a death will definitely occur upon one of them, sooner or later.

Rosinante had known this eye long ago – unlike himself, Doflamingo had learned the hardest way to survive when he was still young. He was a terrifying, and, pretty little creature back in his early days. Rosinante remembered how he stick out his tiny pink tongue to lick the blood staining his mouth corner clean, regardless of who that blood belongs to. An unscrupulous smile could always be found on his face, a look both naive and vicious.

He admired his big brother a great deal at that time. Compared to his awkward self, Doffy was practically nothing less than omnipotent.

 

As though to shake something off, he shook his head. He told himself that he would not be dragged back by anything from the past. The moment he made up his mind to stand against his brother, he was ready to face his everlasting hate. It was the fact that even this hate would fall into emptiness soon enough put him at a loss.

He crouched, placing one of his knees on the ground. Doflamingo stared at him with a disgusted look, and Rosinante turned his eyes away to take a glance at his body. Doflamingo's limbs were long and slim, all in mellifluous curves, giving an impression of a violin sonata composed in high pitch only. Rosinante looked at those vandalizing wounds spreading across them silently, until something else came to his notice. Close to the prisoner's thighs, some white liquid traces were sprinkled on the black stone floor. Mildly dazed, he took a deep breath tentatively, and a peculiar scent covered by blood odor before entered his nose.

His move did not escape Doflamingo – chest heaving suddenly grew intense, the pirate's eyes went wide with an instant blush emerging on his cheeks. His face froze a few seconds, until a twisted expression of rage or shame wracked it completely. Lips shivering, he veered off fiercely to shoot foul glaring at a non-existent spot on the wall, in an angle Rosinante could see his earlobes red.

 

“…”

In a flash, Rosinante's breathing had gone silent.

He was such a dumbass. He should have noticed the moment he saw Doflamingo lying nearly naked.

He had no idea how Doflamingo managed to work himself through all this. It's possible that he didn't. Doflamingo was a condescending ass back to when his memory first formed, he even took offense in the physical touch from those who were deemed “inferior”. He was handsome though, a beauty even anger could not alter, since fury only lit his face on the inside such that it shined like the sun. Rosinante couldn't help but imagine such an arrogant Doflamingo getting pressed down by a gang of marines, how his slender limbs twitched, how his gaze melted into scorching liquid gold and poured out of that only eye, how he screamed as though there were blood spattering through his teeth – the blond had to bite his tongue to cut the illusions from swelling.

The reality struck and collapsed upon him, leaving him wobbly on his feet. As if he was forced to watch a surreal drama of nightmares and horrors, before the script was pushed into his hand, a voice whispering to him: “Nice play you wrote here.” He blinked rigidly. A burst of bug-crawling itching scratched his throat all of a sudden; flustered, he coughed a little before falling into a hell of upset – he absurdly wished not to utter a slightest sound, as though that shall erase the traces of his existence completely in the past few minutes. Breathing had become a manual procedure, he had to give commands to his own respiratory tract every second, yet unable to adjust the inhaling amount of oxygen like a clumsy fledgling mech facing a valve; suffocated, he struggled to take a deep breath, his right hand fumbling over the pocket subconsciously for a cigarette, only to grab empty air and fret himself even more. His spirit was treading on cotton and shaking, and not until the grand bell ringing in his brain slowly fell into a pause did he regain his composure little by little.

This was horrible. Just purely horrible, but he had no choice. Doflamingo had himself trapped in his own world; his own anger, his own hate, they were the only things he wanted the world to answer for. Even if he had witnessed the pirate's bitter end, even if he knew how the man would die with all the poisonous animosity in his heart, had time gone back, Rosinante could only walk that long path paved with mud and frost once more.

He had to do this. He knew, he always knew. Doflamingo was a demon. He was also his big brother, and he sent him into hell with his own hands. It's a burden he must bear, and Rosinante won't flee from this fact.

 

“…Wait. What the fuck do you think you're doing?”

Thoughts interrupted, Rosinante raised his eyes only to meet Doflamingo's face, which was twisted in shock. He had no idea what the pirate was talking about, until he lowered his head to find a hand resting on his brother's bare thigh. His hand.

“….”

The awkwardness rendered him completely still. He gawked at it, feeling every flow of blood rushing towards not just his hand but also his brain. He should have it pulled back at that very moment, yet nothing happened – his thoughts and actions were torn apart like a piece of paper. Some mystical impulsion tugged at his clothes corner. Two vague propositions jumped into his head for a wrestle, scuffling into a tangle instantly, stirring his consciousness chaotic in the meantime. Like a shoddy wooden doll, he stayed in that foolish hand-stretching pose until Doflamingo's laughter split the anarchy in his brain up.

“This. This is what you want?” Lips warping sarcastically, the blond shook his head, as though he just heard of a ridiculous scandal. “What's the matter, all that wages Sengoku have been paying you can't even afford a decent fuck?”

Rosinante cannot answer. You misunderstood – the words span in his throat a little, then were swallowed.

Those were the words he could not say, for he knew Doflamingo may have not misunderstood him after all.

In the beginning, he was just paying an unwelcome visit to the man he once called brother. But then he was informed that everything between them was going to end here and now. Each move he took at this moment printed a word in their epilogue, and if he chose to do nothing, he'll have to gawk at the blankness every time he turned to these pages of his memory. Just as how the dramatic confrontations erupt at the end of a play, he suddenly realized that all those silence and binds inside him had actually exhausted each other long ago.

Rosinante peered at Doflamingo, a confounding expression on his face, like agony, like expectations. Doffy was right, they had no more words for each other, but he would not just stand up and leave forever. He wasn't like his big brother, he couldn't just whisk their ties off as though brushing away some cobwebs. Too many broken promises and lies were paved among them, and he knew no matter how much he fiddled with the debris, he could never piece up two dolls snuggling up to each other again. Yet he still wanted something gentle to happen between them for a moment, even just after-heat in the air, or delusions written in water.

He didn't want to bid Doflamingo a frivolous goodbye.

 

Tentatively, his slid his hand down Doflamingo's outer thigh. The skin under his hand was smooth and tepid, a satin sensation rubbed against his palm docilely. He caressed him gently, a small fire burning soundlessly in his chest, which was a quite orange candle fire instead of fretting wild flames. He was not a man of debauchery; comparing to lust, this was more of a dire need to touch the other.

Neither did Doflamingo withdraw his thigh, nor did he utter a sound of refusal. Frowning, He just peered at his little brother in silence. All of a sudden, a familiar smile broke over his face – not a bitter one, but the intimidating trademark one he equipped as a weapon before.

“Tell me, will you stop if I say no?”

Rosinante raised his head. The moment their eyes met, he gave a nod.

Doflamingo stared at him, as though staring an exhibition in a freak show. He then arched his neck, this time almost laughed out loud.

“If that's true, Rosinante, then you really are a pure embarrassment.”

Rosinante did not answer. He might as well gag the blond if he really cared, but he didn't. He placed another palm on Doflamingo's knee, carefully separating his legs apart while the latter supported his upper body with one elbow on the ground, squinting at him drowsily. Rosinante looked down to find out that his inner thighs had been whipped as well; some of the exquisite skin had peeled off as if was corroded by acid, and the bloody stripes span scarlet webs with crimson scraps of dermis and flesh hanging among them. He took a look at the middle of those thighs. A second later he turned his eyes away, with some nerves on the back of his head pulsing violently.

Seeing Rosinante's reaction, Doflamingo, with his head tilted, uttered an amused laughter. Like a gutted animal on a dissecting table, he held his parted legs still with no concern in hiding the mess between them, a distorted expression of between insanity and nonchalance spreading over his face. His pose was self-abandoned, yet his only eye was locked on Rosinante, in which the chilled malevolence froze into a row of steel spears.

“Hahahahh… How's that? Not very interested now, are you? …Hahah… Ugh!”

Doflamingo's creepy laughter ceased the moment Rosinante's finger inserted, breaking into short gasps. The interior of his cavity was wet and sloppy, a finger can thrust in and twirl around neatly with little effort. Rosinante knew what the lubricant was. Usually he would find it filthy, but this time was an exception. He stopped the stroking aimed at exploring, and began to undulate his finger while slowing into a gentler pace. The tense and tortured flesh around him shuddered nervously, taking the unexpected caress in neurotic fear. The tunnel had been stretched too much to clench around one finger tightly, so he added another one, doing his best to make Doflamingo relax.

Panting, adjusting, the blond gave him an eye roll before putting up a scoffing smirk.

“…Hah…that's…that's the best you can do?”

It's hard to imagine someone in such a situation to be so provoking, but who knows, that's Doflamingo. Even deprived of all his weapons, he could still sting someone with a cold eye, or a fake smile.

Rosinante said nothing to Doflamingo's mocking. Instead, he placed another spare hand on the latter's body.

Prepared as he was, Doflamingo still cringed at the touch when a finger pressed on his skin. Not that he was afraid of Rosinante, his body just remembered his encounter with the marine's comrades a little too well, about how they squeezed the last drops of values and sense of achievement out of a bloody pile of mess. He could still feel the mechanical piston motion in his two holes at the start, in-out-in-out-in-out-in-out, dug in, slit open, gouged out. He was thrown in to a juicer, a flock of hummingbirds humming in his brain, fireworks exploding fitfully inside his body, shivering. But then, gradually, such tangible feelings faded and the only thing left was abstract agony, wriggling and stretching as shadows in a nightmare, growing in his blood and flesh like tree roots drilling far into the ground.

He bit his lower lip and refused to recall any more of their humiliation, before turning his head away from Rosinante. His pathetic little brother. How he remained so weak after going hunt with a gang of predators for years was beyond him.

With a palm sticking on Doflamingo's skin, Rosinante tried to stroke across Doflamingo's chest, but withdrew before the skin crawling with flogging wounds. He moved his hand straight ahead, and his fingertip skimmed over a nipple. It was interesting to watch how the pirate's shapely body jerked every time he pinched the pink bud even so lightly, almost like pressing a switch. He looked up to find out Doflamingo's face had gone rigid. Encouraged, he nipped it and then pulled it with a small force, twisting slightly, his fingertip circling along the light colored areola.

Doflamingo's body jerked, wriggling reluctantly on the ground. To act more flexibly, Rosinante pressed his pinioned wrists over his head and bent down, closing the nipple in his mouth instead. Enclosed in the tight wrap of the oral cavity, the flesh bead shivered, getting squashed in the man's mouth like a jelly drop pinched between fingertips. With the inner walls of his mouth swathing it closely, Rosinante took a deep suck, earning a high-pitched moan from above his head.

That's another little wonder about Doflamingo – Rosinante had seen enough of the pirate's vicious talents in combat, his body had a more than strong pain tolerance, yet it stayed quite vulnerable to carnal caresses. He clamped the sensitive bud between his teeth, grinding it mildly. Then, he took a nibble, planting small licks and kisses upon it, and prized it gently as though prying a cherry off a cake with his tongue tip. He heard Doflamingo's quivering sigh, his shackled wrists trembled under his hands, body flinching, writhing to dodge the inevitable. Rosinante could feel the man's heated heart pulses, which were lapping lightly against his cheeks.

The marine withdrew, and took a look at Doflamingo's face. The cold smile was gone, his lips were pressed together tightly, the mockery and loathing on his face dimmed by pleasure. Although it was an expression of enduring, the man's chiseled facial features were now softened with cheeks tinted faint red.

Rosinante preferred Doffy's face like this.

Without a second thought, he reached out his hand to touch it, but Doflamingo just shot him an impatient glare before turning away.

Only the blond knew he was barely keeping himself together. He actually felt a lot more than he showed, such a great lot that he almost got goose bumps. God, the way Rosinante handled him – serried needle points were poking his skin densely, fluctuating, even materializing under the skin to prick his deeper muscles. A spasm hit the flesh in his whipping wounds, but no pain was felt: the past agony had turned into something else, which did not hurt. It was just an itch, yet a far more intense one than the tantalizing sensations caused by a whisking green foxtail or creeping insects, which was sharper, fierier, and almost likelier to stick out of the skin. His searing blood and flesh squeezed the open tears on the inside, urging them to rip like overripe fruits.

He heard his own little moans. This irritated the pirate. He only wanted Rosinante's monodrama to embarrass himself, and showing weakness with such slutty sounds was not part of his plan, but he had little choice. Rosinante's fingers were now showing an agility he couldn't imagine his awkward brother to be capable of before, massaging that special spot stubbornly, turning and pressing down with utmost patience. The small bulge was pressed shallowly into the walls, while sweet angst gathered around it and concentrated, bubbling mildly. Gradually, no longer restricted to one spot, the streams of pleasure began to flow around like water poured onto a hilltop; his whole inner body was consequently heating up, a process warm as summer, irresistible as the arrival of summer. Rosinante began to turn his finger slowly, clockwise, counter clockwise, along with unceasing pulling out and thrusting in, churning his tightened tunnel regularly. His pelvis had gone numb on the inside, where the flows of pleasure met and swelled up to a huge chaos, oppressing the muscles even other internal organs, during when he lost control of everything going on inside himself.

Such helplessness made Doflamingo sick. He hated it when he was not in charge. Even in some of his past experiences which he was the one to take it, he considered himself being served by the other and psychologically dominant. This time, though Rosinante's moves were not rough – on the contrary, he virtually felt like the only thing the marine cared about was his pleasure, it still pained Doflamingo. These caresses were too gentle not to be lies. Such gentleness was strictly superficial, and its essence was determined, cold, reflecting how Rosinante teased him mockingly like trifling with a canary held in hand. He just knew it. He wanted to fold his legs, but his body wouldn't listen; he wanted to flinch, but Rosinante wouldn't allow it. His little brother's hand crawled across those intact parts of his skin while the other got his sensitive spot stimulated repeatedly, and no matter how he tried to distract himself with the toast on Vergo's face or Trebol's snot, his lower body still warmed up till it was seething.

Limbs trembling, neck arching, Doflamingo panted, and finally realized that Rosinante was no longer his clumsy little brother who couldn't do a single thing right. He had grown up so much, and he didn't even notice one bit. He made him lose everything, and he only found out that their duel had begun long ago at the moment he lost.

The magma flew in his chest broiled his lungs, so hot that he could not breathe. His fists were clutching tightly, and he didn't notice he pinched his palm so hard it bled.

 

“Is this… how you treat your trophy, Rosinante?”

Rosinante raised his head. The blond was breathing heavily, shooting him a fierce smile. He looked exasperated, and, unfortunately, Rosinante somehow felt like he knew why.

“Cut the crap! You betrayed me! You want me dead!” His voice rose, distorting in agitation. “So spare me of your pretentious gentleness, drop the act and get the fuck in right now!”

A small shock flashed on the Rosinante's face, but vanished almost instantly. He then blinked stiffly, yet said nothing in his own defense.

He shouldn't be surprised that Doflamingo took his carefulness as insults – that excessive pride of him was in fact awfully sensitive, and he wasn't really expecting the man to curl up into a feather ball and sob softly either. He was just mildly upset, since he knew he couldn't convince him otherwise, that he was just trying not to hurt him.

They don't really get each other. Maybe they never did.

 

Disregarding the little sting, he pulled his fingers out and posed himself. The next second, He sank his waist and shoved forwards, until he was completely sheathed inside Doflamingo. In a flash, he was all out in exceeding hot softness, and a tightness beyond description wrapped him so hard that he had to take a deep breath to adjust. An intimate feeling similar to entering a hot spring coaxed him to stay, embracing him with a warmness he only wanted to drown himself in; he even felt it would be the best if he could just vanish under the water completely. Rosinante's supporting hand shuddered as everything else had briefly vaporized and, almost neurotically, he started to thrust in. The tunnel structure stretched over his erection like a layer of flesh film, the scorching yet cotton-soft walls swaddled his hard rod, sucking, quivering, clasping it in a craze as if they longed for it so bad. It was incredible – the organ was but a small part of his body, yet now each and every last drop of his blood was pooling up in it, as though grasped in the hand of a devil, gently and cruelly.

With that said, such a feeling was not all that unfamiliar to Rosinante. He wouldn't dig all this out of the mound if he wasn't in such a perfect position to call back his memories – a narrow victory, a night going weird, a few bottles of wine, a hardly sober Rosinante in a sofa. He didn't think much of it when noticing a young master of Donquixote Family waddled his way towards him, but things got a little weird when the latter tried to climb on him with his trousers barely hung on his thighs. Then, kicking them off in a haste, the blond smirked with his head slant, and leaned to kiss his brother's awkward face with a childish pout. Rosinante could have dodged that, but hell, at that moment the only things left in his steam-fuming vision were Doflamingo's lips, which were thin, claret-red, and more than appropriate for kisses. All he managed was gawking at those breath-taking rose petals, thinking shit like writing “Doflamingo is a terrible drinker” into his report for Sengoku, and ended up with a peck on his cheeks by a tender bird beak. The way the blond chuckled was oddly innocent compared to when he was sober, forming a look both credulous and tempting on his face.

“Well, I guess you can touch me, Rosi. Not like those lowly commoners.” He sang, “I – Fufufu – I authorize you to do it as a privilege of being my brother.” Giggling, he straddled on Rosinante as his body softened into a feathery nestling in the latter's arms, before those feverish cheeks rubbed meekly against Rosinante's chin.

Few experiences of “to study your enemy further” can be as pleasurable, Rosinante can give it that. But the following day, Doflamingo behaved like all he did last night was giving Rosinante a nod on his way back to the bedroom, and continued to sit that ass on every male in the family who didn't piss him off in the first ten seconds. To be honest, Rosinante was both relived and, a little, upset.

And this one, this one last time had to be different. Rosinante hoped it can become something worth remembering for them both, even if he knew Doflamingo would scoff at the thought.

 

He held Doflamingo's waist still, pounding his hips in a steady pace. He could feel the warm cavity clenching around him, greedy and squishy. Rosinante's thrusting was rough, the brutal friction between flesh and flesh rolled up carnal heat which duplicated every time he slammed in, spreading among the inner walls, melting into the blood. This had driven Doflamingo's body mad, which had dropped the prudery, and begged to be petted against its master's will. The pirate's penis was doubtlessly erecting, and Rosinante grabbed, pumping it a bit but then letting go, unwilling to have the other come so casually. He didn't really have time for it either. Every thrust of his now splashed slippery little noises, and as for the inside, the scorching tender flesh squeezed his erection all over, tightening like a snapping noose, wringing him in a desperate spasm, in an unintentional attempt to awake more of the primal desires bound by his senses.

Groaning, Rosinante wiped the sweat from his forehead. That was so intense. Doflamingo wasn't any better: as though a layer of solid ice just thawed upon his face, his facial skin looked damp, as Rosinante saw the blinks of the sweat on his nose tip. He was gasping, barely, slender limbs trembling as bamboo leaves in the rain. Obviously he was having a hard time, yet he still managed to glower at the man upon him like a cat with raised fur. Rosinante caressed his side waist, soothing him, then straightened his upper body, penetrating the man further in a leaning pose.

This time, every thrust was aimed right towards Doflamingo's sensitive spot, shoving, squeezing, grinding, slamming against, the tunnel was stirred so hard that it jerked. Rosinante turned his hip sharply, pounding in from different directions, drilling that special spot as though shooting arrows towards the bull's-eye. He pulled out completely, slowing down when pushing back in, his stiffened erection stuck into the soft walls with the top of it grinding its way in like a road roller; he then suddenly plucked out and, without hesitation, rammed all its way through in one slam, while the friction set the inner walls on fire and burned in the tunnel. 

Doflamingo's eye widened under the impact with his pupil constricting. His legs were hung in the air, shivering, his body twisted like a drawing bow, no longer able to suppress its reactions. His breathing had virtually gone futile, unable to inhale air. He groaned erratically, which was no more than small fragments of voice fitfully dropping out of his throat, and the eroticism in his moans had grown even more evident. Goddammit, he couldn't take this shit anymore, Rosinante did well at getting to the point as if he was writing a report for the marines, and he pounded really, really hard. He was broiling on the inside and it almost hurt, like someone just shoved a fucking stove up his ass. And the heat was not his only problem: something dreadful, something that was making his knees weak, was accumulating bit by bit through all the plucking, thrusting and grinding. It scurried from his rectums to his spine, crawling up, paralyzing the nerves and muscles along the way, eroding his consciousness like poison or worms, throwing his into an abyss as he fell helplessly. That was ridiculous, the last time he checked, that thing of his little brother was as clumsy as himself. Or he remembered wrong, he was drunk after all. Or he was simply wrong about both matters.

 

Two resembling bodies tangled as their sweat dropped and mixed together. The confrontational punching was so barbaric, flesh slapping against flesh, that drops of liquid spattered every time a slam was fired. So euphoric, yet so pathetic – Rosinante felt like he was lurking in a fanatic shell driven by lust, while his soul was floating above in the air, eyeing this travesty in silence.

He could not pretend that a Rosinante in the past had no idea what's coming: the changes time had brought upon them looked inconceivable, but decades ago, in fact, the moment he rushed out of the door with his back to Doflamingo, a faint hunch of where they were going to end up had struck him. He recalled how he fled along a path covered in sparse grass, leaving his deceased father and a kid no longer his brother behind; he ran, the countryside embracing him was tranquil, brimming with clean and pale scents of spring. Everything was at peace, but no matter how he rubbed his eyes, his shaking vision was always tinted vague red.

From that day on, like an omen, he felt in his guts that blood, slaughter, death, such things he never asked for had set up an ambush somewhere in his future, and will one day devour him as well as Doflamingo.

And there they are.

 

Doflamingo's head was tossing back and forth, his swinging blond hair messy and drenched. No longer able to play tough under the impact of ecstasy, his limbs jerked in different directions, body twitching like a pull string puppet. Rosinante peered at his face – with the sunglasses gone, the transparent film wrapping it stripped by pleasure, it was no longer that ornate, cold and intimating mask of Water Seven, but the face of a real human, with a rather mundane allure rippling from its shuddering curves. His brows were gathered into a tortured frown, saliva streaming down from his mouth corner, glimmering vaguely, his lips twisting into a suffering arc. The look on his face was blank, lecherous, and – helpless. He tossed his head frantically, moaning, until he finally lost it; he raised his pinioned arms, and covered them upon his eyes. His fingers were twisting into unnatural shapes, arms still bleeding from flogging, twitching involuntarily on his face.

And Rosinante knew. He knew how much Doflamingo hated this all, because so did he.

But he had no other way. They could only carve wounds into each other in memory of themselves. Doflamingo was going to die. Every move of Rosinante's was going all out, for this was the only way, the only way to grasp something he wanted to catch in every passing moment. Those old wounds got torn open and bled repeatedly, and were now beyond any healing. He knew, but he also knew that before Doflamingo completely vanished from his life, if he did not kiss Doflamingo, if he didn't abandon his ego briefly to transform into a screw and drill deep into him, if he did nothing to have the gap lying between them healed even just for an instant, he'll regret it.

Their bodies fed on each other. Fierce convulsions, flamboyant enthusiasm, a dazzling binge. The carnal sensations were too pompous to feel real, as if falling incessantly through many fleeting dreams, each of which faded in a flash once you lived through it. Doflamingo's spasms had gone dangerously erratic, showing a sign of the glass about to crack at extreme temperature. Rosinante paid no mind, stabbing into Doflamingo like a bloodthirsty dirk with the blond curls slapping against his forehead. The latter jerked wildly, wailing with his arm covering his eyes, until Rosinante lifted it and put it aside, holding his face in a palm, his finger pulps rubbing the blush on that cheek which resembled a burn mark. Then he bent down, trying to kiss the blond on his lips.

Their lips were pressed together. Rosinante's tongue stuck its way into Doflamingo's mouth with little effort. Their tongues were tangling, stirring, depicting each other in uneven writhing. Their lips melted, in slimy little noises and damped breaths. Warmness brimmed the oral cavity, Rosinante breathed deeply though his nose, and replied a gentle suck when he tasted the other's involuntary sucking on his tongue.

He was having a kiss with his worst enemy. Incredibly though, he even felt a little nostalgic, as though after all these years he thought he had wiped those parts of Doflamingo other than madness out of his mind, he somehow found them again in a locked chest while cleaning the attic – he stood in front of his clumsy little brother, tying his bow-tie up with his deft, snowy fingers. He wandered the piles of corpses casually, the flamboyant stripes winding those slim legs like thorns. His smile was always telling an enigma, of which the answer might be a deliberate conspiracy, a poisonous lie, an unspoken invitation of crime – or sex. His lobes were tinted red after getting drunk, together with his involuntary frown and faint look of agony. His breaths, shallow as signs, scratching his rigid neck as he fell asleep in his arms. Rosinante even remembered how he peered at the man's sleeping face, how he secretly wondered about things if only his brother was nothing more than pure arrogance, bad temper and gorgeousness, if only those blossoms on his thorns have no venom flowing on their every petal –

At that time, those whims were already asking for as much indulgence as he could afford. Yet now he was kissing him, and this kiss was too syrupy, too unrealistically gentle, that Rosinante hoped in a trance that he could just sank in this kiss with Doffy. A futile pray was made, for a way to make this ephemeral dream last forever.

Even if he knew it would never be answered.

 

On the verge of suffocation, he finally let go of Doflamingo's lips. He gasped, mildly dazed, until he saw the other's open eyes. The blond looked up with his cheeks flushed, yet no slightest trace of smile was shown. Lust had his right eye moist, but under the thin mist lied nothing more than a coldness similar to that in his glassy left eye. He was completely motionless in an abandoning pose, and he was eyeing Rosinante in a way of eyeing a roadside stone.

Then, with his eyes on his little brother, he turned his face aside and, made a powerless spit.

 

“…”

All Rosinante could manage was gawking at Doflamingo.

It was not until a little while later did he slowly came to a realization, that what mesmerized him just now was nothing more than a mono drama. As for Doflamingo, obviously he was just getting kissed passively by Rosinante, for he didn't even take the rubbing between their mouths as a real kiss. Even if they were having sex, he would not take such gentleness as a temporary peace offering. Even if their kiss asked for neither love nor intimacy, it was still a delusion he could not bear.

He pushed him away with the last bit of his strength.

Limbs going numb, Rosinante couldn't utter a single word. He just looked at Doflamingo dryly. His only eye seemed so unfamiliar. As he recalled, it was always prying stealthily, always reserved but confident. Yet this eye before him was gutted open as a secret in the epilogue of a play, what oozed from it was no longer the lively confidence, but a dreadful, withered, lifeless fearlessness. He provoked Rosinante nonchalantly with it, he reviewed his short and bumpy life in it, and Rosinante knew he'll soon be peering at the befalling death through it. He had no need of anything anymore.

He despaired.

 

After a long silence, Rosinante drew his eyes back tardily. Something was swelling up in his chest drastically, almost going to break out from his throat.

He lowered his head, and began to swing his waist recklessly in an attempt to conceal. He might have hurt Doflamingo, but he wouldn't slow down. Not this time. Not anymore.

 

“…Fuck!” After the initial impact, Doflamingo's tremulous voice went oddly high-pitched, sobbing, virtually a wailing. “Fuck it!” His thighs were nearly pressed onto his waist by Rosinante, with his pinioned hands in a gasping pose. His pale limbs seemed to be impaled on invisible spikes, strained and broken in frenzied spasms. His glassy left eye blinked in a flurry while his right eye was misted over, eyelashes dewy in tears, and his ghastly face burned in ecstasy with an abrupt, morbid blush on the cheeks. Rosinante pounded all his way through in one slam, tossing Doflamingo's head back while the latter's body convulsed in delirium. The blond felt like he was being torn apart; with those heavy punches getting fiercer and harder, his body now arched like a roughly bent hanger. He was jabbed and mashed, splashing juice like a ripped peach, warm, boiling, blood or saliva or other fluid of which he had no idea. He was literally oozing as a bag pricked into a strainer, oozing from every hole of his.

With Doflamingo's moans sharpening every second, Rosinante's hands managed to hold the man's waist a little tighter. The actions and the sensations begot each other, putting his body into a complete motion circle without the pushing from his consciousness. He was in fact shuddering badly himself, but the ongoing pounding made it less obvious, or look like a result of pleasure. His muscles twitched violently, blood flushing in boiling heat. A huge hole was gouged in his heart, through which the cold wind roared emptily, and in it thrived the hate. But such hate was non-aggressive, volatile, a powerless hate that could only result in collapsing onto the ground and bursting into tears.

They were losing each other every second, losing something they never owned. They didn't even know what they have missed at all, and they're going to lose it.

Their scorching bodies rubbed against each other, gently and drastically. Every thrust was so deep, so full, as if the gap lying between them had been filled impeccably. Rosinante lifted Doflamingo's head with a palm on its back, licking and nibbling his sensitive neck. Doflamingo was pointing his chin upward, his Adam's apple rolling, inhaling in a sobbing tone. He convulsed so violently that all his limbs drew tight, every curve of them stretching to a snapping violin string. An overwhelming warmth surged from his inside, flow after flow, and back-washed throughout him, scolding him into a hot pile of squirming mess. He had a feeling that he just went completely blind, since he couldn't see a single thing before him anymore. It was no longer about his eye then, for the sheets of color now visualize directly in his senses, even before his lost left eye, bright gold, pale azure, red darkened into deep purple, jumbling in a spinning paint bucket. His vision had been expanded to an unprecedented vast, but his consciousness was compressed into a tiny lump, a scrunched up paper ball, unable to bear another thought. 

Finally, as if in a sleepwalking, the orgasm struck. The heat fluxes gushed into his trembling interior, merging him like tributaries rushing into a sea. A dim voice called “Doffy”, but he might just be hearing things. Someone's shivering arms embraced him, but he couldn't feel it anymore. The sensations he could no longer tell from agony to euphoria had crushed him, shattered him, like a smashed marionette, his existence melted, spilling through the fragments as egg white oozing from broken pieces of an eggshell, flowing clean, till nothing but darkness remained.

 

 

A slight sound of dripping stung the silence when a water drop spattered in the corner. Everything was stagnating. The airflow was gradually decaying in stillness, slowing into a long pass away. The dim light floated listlessly with the dust in the air. The rocks embedded in the wall were tinted dark, in their shapes flinty and cold. This cell was a lifeless cage. Even if in which something just withered and died, it would still remain its cold little cage.

Rosinante's head was bowed. Under the marine uniform, his chest was still heaving unevenly in the aftermath. His hair was rather drenched, curls hanging down in front of his eyes. He didn't brush them away, and his eyes just faded into the shadow. Doflamingo was sprawling on the floor before him, still as a dead bird. His bare skin shimmered faintly, hazy and pallid, slender limbs scattering like some withered flower stalks on the ground. His face was ghastly, as if he was drain of all his blood. His wet eyelashes shivered, and his eyes were so empty as though a golden piece of nothingness had snowed in them. His breath was light and shallow, with little whimpers leaking through those bitten lips.

No one had said another word. Rosinante rose to his feet with a push at the ground, pulling up his trousers, then buckled his belt. Shuddering, Doflamingo folded his legs in a spasm, hugging his knees in silence. They were not looking at each other. Rosinante turned around, then opened the door and walked out of the cell. Doflamingo was left on the floor behind him, like the darkness left behind in a night walk.

 

 

It had been two days when Rosinante learned the death of Doflamingo.

He didn't even hear it from Sengoku. He overheard some marines tattling about the unexpected incident while having tea in the rest area. They were talking about it while sitting around a coffee table, talking about it between the wedding of a singer and today's dinner menu. An assassin had infiltrated the ship escorting Donquixote Doflamingo to Impel Down, and the man was leaning his body against the wall quietly like a doll when they found out, a blank look on his face, blood pouring from a long, thin cut on his throat and flowing all over the floor, painting his whole chest red.

He didn't say a word when he heard it, just simply dropped the tea and walked away. Nevertheless, when running into Sengoku in the corridor, he gazed at the senbei package in the man's hand for a few seconds, and opened his mouth. “You don't need to dwell on this anymore, Rosinante. The mission was complete, and all that tangle going on between you two was put to a stop. It only did you good.” Sengoku stared at him with stern eyes, before putting a piece of senbei in his mouth.

He tottered his way back to the barracks. Some acquaintances greeted him on his way, yet he didn't manage to answer. He locked the door and tilted his back on it, his whole body slowly sliding down to the ground. He took out his cigarette case. The first cigarette dropped from his shivering fingers, rolling a bit on the floor. He picked another one. He gazed into the ashen smoke suffusing before him, a spark flashing silently in the mist.

A good ending. You had forced me this far, forced me into this good ending, and in this good ending, you died.

He sucked at the cigarette little by little, until nothing but its butt was nipped between his fingers. He stood up, falling over himself twice before standing in front of the mirror, almost having a third fall when he found himself face to face with a languished stranger in marine uniform. Gawking at the dreadful face in the mirror for a moment, he drew out his lipstick from the pocket and, from the left cheek to the right, clumsily along the lips, smeared a smile on his face. He stood still, peering at his front without a word, and the man's smile in the mirror slowly went vague.

 

 

 

Fin


End file.
